


home

by sunshinecorvid



Category: evermore - Taylor Swift (Album)
Genre: Christmas, Inspired by Taylor Swift, M/M, Songfic, hallmark but make it gay, inspired by tis the damn season, small town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinecorvid/pseuds/sunshinecorvid
Summary: After going home for Christmas a struggling writer reunites with an old flame.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	home

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little different than what I usually write, a little informal, a little experimental for me with writing in second person but I think it turned out pretty good. Hope you enjoy it !!

you’re a writer living in LA and you have to go back to your hometown for the holidays. you aren’t looking forward to it, you didn’t leave on good terms and you haven’t been back in years.

the flight was a short one but it felt like days. you stared out the window, lost in the nostalgia and the freedom laden haze of your teenage years. the love and the friends and finals and sneaking beers up to Clark's point to watch the sunset. your first kiss, your first heartbreak, your father telling you to get the hell out as soon as you were eighteen.

you land. it’s cloudy like it always was, the mountains white with fresh snow instead of the green of spring or the golden fire of autumn. there’s a pang of regret, regret that you ever left, regret that you ever came back. you had no idea what was waiting for you but you were sure it wasn’t anything good.

your parent’s house hasn’t changed one bit. simple white lights around the porch, an evergreen wreath on the front door laced with red ribbons and holly. your father opens the door. he greets you with a hug, that’s new, you thought. he welcomes you inside, tells you your old room upstairs is all done up and ready for you. there’s the smell of mom’s minestrone, your favorite.  
you head upstairs and almost get knocked over by the overwhelming deja vu, memories coming at you like an ax to your skull. 

you sit down, you don’t unpack your bags. you aren’t staying long. 

instead you go through old journals and yearbooks you left behind, seeing faces you no longer had memories to go with, going oh he’s dead now, or she hated me, they liked me.   
you stopped when you came to his face. sharp smile, bright eyes, soft heart. you remember your lips against his, you remember being shoved away, the only time you’ve ever seen fear on his face, and you remember being grabbed and held and loved.

you close the yearbook. dinner should be ready now.

your parents finally grew up. they didn’t understand at first, your father was livid at first, but he understands now. they both do. they ask about anyone back home. you smile, shake your head, and they exchange a glance. 

it’s better than yelling. and a part of you wanted this. you ignored that part.

you eat dinner, they catch you up on what’s changed. the bakery closed down. oh no, you say, we loved that place. there’s a Starbucks there now. you frown, you eat your soup. it’s quiet. you mention it. your sister will be here tomorrow. enjoy it while it lasts, your mom says. 

you have a beer, watch the sun die. just like you used to. you feel as if nothing has changed, but everything has changed. 

you tell yourself lies. that you are happy. that you enjoy your life. that you don’t miss this.

you are afraid of missing this. nothing has changed, everything has changed.

you see him. you turn around and head in the opposite direction. no no no no. you keep walking. you pray he didn’t see you.   
you pray he did.

your dad is out of butter. there is not a single stick of butter in the house. apparently, this is cause for war. mom needs butter for pie crust, dad needs butter for turkey and dinner rolls. you head out to buy butter.

it’s freezing. never got this cold in LA. ever. you had to buy warm clothes just to come home. 

home. it had never been that before. 

you walk into the corner market. the one that had always been there, a staple, a place locked in time. phil greets you at the door. phil looks like he should be dead by now, but for all you know he’s part of this place’s time magic too. you look over towards the refrigerated section and-

and you’re stupid. you’re the stupidest person alive. 

you saw the truck. you saw red paint and mud-stained tires and the necklace you gave him hanging on the rearview mirror. you saw it parked outside the market. and you walked in. why did you walk in?

you see him. he sees you. he smiles, god that smile, wide and toothy and crooked, he waves. left hand, no ring. he’s wearing an apron that says marjorie’s market, he’s restocking the fridge. henley rolled up to the elbows, tight around his biceps and forearms. why are you noticing this? you aren’t.

you buy your butter. you leave. quickly.

you walk in the front door. lean against it and catch your breath, try not to lose it. there’s a log on the fire, the place smells like pine sap and smoke and sugar. your sister walks by. what’s up with you, she says. you scowl. some things never change. 

you head upstairs. you aren’t thinking. you refuse to, you can’t. 

but he’s there on the inside of your eyelids, lodged in your thoughts like the sly little fox he always was. not little, your brain supplies helpfully.   
no, not little. he had grown. boy was a man now. from scrawny muscle and narrow hips to strong arms and broad shoulders. same eyes, same smile. 

did the same things to your heart.

there’s a knock at the door. you look out the window. you panic. 

there he was with his hands in his blue jeans and the always-too-big trucker jacket he’d finally grown into. he was nervous. you smile, you curse yourself.  
your mom gets up, starts walking to the door and you cannot let that happen no matter what so you get up and-

it’s too late.

there you are, she says with a smile, wrapping him in her arms. how’s you and your father, she asks. dealing, he says. there’s something off in him, an ache in him that sparks an ache in you. you’re curious. your body remembers and it craves. to comfort, to hold. you missed part of the conversation.

mom closes the screen door, he stays right there, rocking on his heels. 

like the air before a thunderstorm, charged with power and potential destruction, you feel your mom’s presence. she snaps your name, scolds you in a way mothers always can, no matter how old you are. you’ve seen him twice, and you just left? she sounds appalled. she tells you to go talk to him, now. never leave a boy standing out in the cold, she says, bad manners. and with that, she heads back into the dining room to finish a puzzle she started last night. 

you swallow your pride, your nervousness. everything that comes with seeing his face again, hearing his voice again.   
you’re in a sweater, a sweater in a color that he always said you looked good in. that was an accident. you didn’t mean to bring it, you didn’t mean to put it on this morning, but here you were. here he was. 

hey, you say, opening up the screen door and stepping out onto the porch. 

hey, he says. you missed his voice. you hate yourself for it.

it’s awkward. there’s no debating it. you feel like jay and daisy. the tension of silent years and unspoken words and feelings hanging between you, tangling you together.   
you can almost feel mom and dad’s eyes on the back of your neck. your sister was probably watching too, the little devil. 

you ran away, he says, breaking the silence. he laughs, and you missed that too. literally, you ran away from me.

you bury your head in your hands. i’m sorry, you say, you’re laughing too now. you can’t help it. his laughter has always been contagious. the kind that makes you roll on the ground with stomach cramps. 

you tell him you were nervous. 

why, he asks. 

everything, being here, it’s a lot of memories and... it’s a lot. a lot to remember. 

how can you say everything you’ve ever wanted to say without saying a word? how can you tell someone how much they meant to you, how you crumbled when the space they occupied in your heart was empty, how can you tell someone all of the bruises and burns you had gotten because you had made a mistake?

though it wasn’t a mistake, leaving, it was beginning to feel like one. 

he looks at you, into you, sees it all, like he always has, like you’ll always let him. but he doesn’t say a word except, do you wanna go for a drive?

you bite your lip. bad idea. this was a bad, bad, bad idea. you smiled, said let’s go.

new roads, same destination. 

his arms, his lips, his bed. 

kissing under stars in the freezing cold.

minutes felt like days felt like seconds.

snowfall and fireplace crackle and small-town Christmas. 

it was Christmas Eve, Christmas day, the day after. all in the blink of an eye. 

Christmas Eve spent with him, spent sharing drinks, spent hands linked. 

Christmas day, snowed in, he was home. talking to your dad, cooking with your mom. his dad came over, a sad sight without his wife, but we ate around the table, talking and laughing, it felt right. it felt like every day, it felt like nothing, it felt like everything.

and then you went back to LA. back to the smog and 75 in December. you weren’t going to keep him waiting if he didn’t ask you to stay. you had a life, sort of, he had a life, sort of. it wasn’t going to work. it couldn’t. 

because boyfriends don’t run to the airport to stop you from leaving just before your flight, and boyfriends don’t fly four and a half hours to show up outside your door drenched in rain and with a bushel of roses. grand romantic gestures don’t happen. huge miracles don’t happen. 

but little ones do.

a phone call. a bag packed. a plane ticket. an empty apartment. 

a home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Leave a comment or a kudos if you like, it would mean a lot to me.
> 
> You can find me on my tumblr: goblinwritergay.tumblr.com or on my twitter: @mushroomgabe


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